


A Burst Pipe Problem

by fengirl88



Series: Bad Language [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about mulled wine, Lestrade remembers too late, is that it's a great loosener of inhibitions. Even so, he wasn’t expecting Christmas at 221b to turn out quite like <i>this.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Burst Pipe Problem

**Author's Note:**

> written as a Secret Santa present for m_steelgrave at 221b_slash_fest and beta'd by the amazing ginbitch.

You can't get a plumber on Christmas Eve for love or money, and Lestrade had tried both. The cute young man from Boys On Tap sounded tempted by the offer of a drink and a shag, but he was up to his elbows like all the rest. No-one available till at least the 27th to deal with a burst pipe.

When John Watson rang, Lestrade didn’t think twice. He and Watson still weren't exactly _friends_ , though they mostly got on OK. But the prospect of Christmas in Baker Street was a fuck of a lot more attractive than his uninhabitable flat.

Sherlock wouldn't be there, of course: spending Christmas with Mummy and Mycroft. Lestrade had put his foot in it, saying he was surprised John wasn’t invited.

“For fuck's sake, why does _everyone_ think we’re a couple?” Watson exploded. “ _I_ don't do blokes, and Sherlock doesn't do _anyone_ as far as I can see, never has.”

Lestrade knew the last bit wasn’t true, but sometimes it’s best to keep your trap shut. That thing with Sherlock was all a long time ago now.

“And _anyway_ ,” Watson finished, furiously, “he's not my type!”

Odd for someone who doesn't do blokes to _have_ a type, Lestrade thought, wondering what John’s type _was_ if not Sherlock. Probably never find out, though. Man like that has far too many inhibitions ever to let his guard down.

 

The thing about mulled wine, Lestrade remembers too late, is that it's a great loosener of inhibitions. Even so, he wasn’t expecting Christmas at 221b to turn out quite like _this._

 

The night before Christmas hadn't been the most comfortable he'd ever spent; but the sofa was bearable and certainly safer than Sherlock's bed. John had brought him tea in the morning, which was nice – long time since anyone did that. And then they'd both set to, preparing sprouts and parsnips and potatoes, roasting the chicken (no point in a turkey for two people, especially since Sherlock didn’t eat leftovers on principle) and arguing about bread sauce (rival family traditions – Lestrade could have _told_ him that stuff wasn't going to ackle). Christmas lunch had gone surprisingly well and they'd settled down to watch TV with a sense of achievement and a pleasant afterglow.

Then, two minutes into the Queen's Speech, the power went off. No TV, no lights, and no central heating. _Fuck_. Someone up there _really_ didn't want Lestrade to have a merry Christmas, did they?

Still, takes more than a power cut to floor the British Army. Or indeed the Met. Watson and Lestrade, veteran campers both, soon had the 221b fireplace back in use, burning apple-wood logs (and sod the Clean Air Act). Lit all the candles they could find, even if some of them looked like Sherlock had been using them for experiments. Once the fire was blazing they’d got a batch of mulled wine on the go (used the poker, very Dickensian). Turned out well. Turned out _very_ well, in fact, and when it's that nice you don't always remember to stop after the first glass.

They hadn't remembered to stop after the first glass.

And then they’d got bored with having nothing to do.

Apart from dealing with Sherlock’s increasingly annoying text messages, that is. It wasn’t John and Lestrade's fault Sherlock wanted to kill Mycroft by now (it _was_ teatime on Christmas Day, after all). If a grown man couldn’t get it together to say he wasn’t “coming home for Christmas”, John said bitterly, he deserved everything he got.

“You're missing him,” Lestrade said incautiously.

“Shut up,” John said, going a bit red. “ _I'm_ not the one who fancies him.”

“Fuck off,” Lestrade said, going red in his turn.

An awkward silence.

“Fancy a game of cards?” Lestrade asked. “Board game, even?” Clutching at straws now.

No playing-cards anywhere, apparently.

“Only _Scrabble_ ,” John said disgustedly.

Naturally the Holmes brothers have their own twisted version of this, which John always loses by _miles_.

 

Afterwards John says that playing dirty-word Scrabble was Lestrade's idea and Lestrade says it was John's. One of many things they don't agree on. John claims Lestrade _made up_ that rule about foreign words being allowed and Lestrade says he's _never_ played a game of dirty-word Scrabble where you can't use those. Not _his_ fault John didn't take advantage of his foreign travels to widen his vocabulary. And just _rude_ to accuse Lestrade of _inventing_ that Hungarian word for frottage.

Next thing you know, Lestrade has got John by the scruff of the neck, saying “Take that back or else”, and John is grabbing his wrists and saying “Gerroff” and “You and whose army?”, and then they're rolling around on the sofa, laughing and swearing, scuffling like a couple of overgrown kids.

And then John kisses Lestrade.

For a man who doesn't do blokes, he's a bloody enthusiastic kisser. Free with his hands, too, yanking Lestrade's shirt clear of his trousers. Lestrade gasps as warm fingers and cool air hit his bare skin.

 _Right_. Two can play at that game. Lestrade kisses John deliberately, slowly, teasing his lips with his tongue and then probing, invading, making John moan and arch his back. Lestrade pulls away, tantalizing him, and strokes his thumb across John's mouth. John nips at him and then yelps as Lestrade's other hand gropes his cock roughly through his trousers.

“You are _so_ going to get it,” Lestrade says.

John tries to shove his hands down the back of Lestrade's trousers. Fails.

“Oh for crying out loud!” Lestrade says, undoing them himself.

Doesn't say anything coherent for a while after that because John's hands stroking and squeezing his arse feel so good they should probably be _illegal_.

They don’t hear the next half-dozen texts from Sherlock come in, which isn’t surprising. Making too much noise. They’ll catch up with all that later. Deal with the fallout, too.

Right now, though, there’s nothing in the world but two bodies ravenously taking their pleasure from each other, a sweaty slippery greedy tangle of limbs. Hands gripping, sliding, stroking, teasing, urging. Mouths licking, sucking, biting; the scrape of teeth against a jaw or a collarbone, the rasp of stubble against lips already swollen from prolonged desperate kissing. Unbearable arousal, delicious friction, gasping, groaning. Faces lost and changed, gone frantic, animal. On the edge of collapse, everything gathering and bursting. Shattered. Gone.

Lestrade comes back to himself in pieces, dizzy and confused, in a blaze of light and sound.

A voice that isn’t his or John’s is saying “That was A-MA-ZING!” Which is fair comment, but what the fuck...?

“Oh God, it’s Strictly Come Dancing,” John groans.

Right. The power’s come back on. Explains a lot.

“Do you think we’ll get a 10 for that?” Lestrade asks.

“I should bloody well hope so,” John says, his hands burrowing under Lestrade’s thighs.

“Stop it!” Lestrade says, giggling feebly.

“Looking for the remote,” John explains.

“I think it fell on the floor,” Lestrade says. “You could just get up and switch it off.”

“ _You_ get up and switch it off, if your legs are working,” John says. “Mine aren’t, just now.”

Lestrade kisses him again, then leans over to retrieve the remote, nearly falling off the sofa in the process.

“Dizzy,” he complains.

“Whose fault is that?” John says.

“Yours, I think,” Lestrade says, switching the TV off.

“Mm,” John says luxuriously, sprawling across Lestrade’s chest. “God, that was good.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Lestrade says.

“Bloody marvellous,” says John.

Lestrade strokes his hair and John sighs contentedly.

“Going to change your mind about doing blokes then?” Lestrade teases him.

“Might do,” John says. “Taking it one bloke at a time, see how I go. _Ow_. Don’t pull my hair like that, you brute! It’s my first time, you’re supposed to be _nice_ to me afterwards.”

“Cheeky sod,” Lestrade says. “So am I _your type_?”

John looks up at him, and Lestrade catches his breath at John’s expression - happy, but also vulnerable and tentative, like he doesn't quite believe he's going to say this.

“I think you must be,” John says. “Am I yours?”

“I didn’t think you were,” Lestrade says, because he can’t lie about it. “But I think I was wrong.”

 

“Heating’s come back on again,” John says. “Do you fancy going to bed for a bit?”

“That would be nice,” Lestrade says, rather breathlessly.

John’s phone beeps again. They look at each other for a moment, uncertainly. Has to be Sherlock.

“Deal with that later,” John says firmly, shoving the phone under the Union Jack cushion. “Bed first.”

“OK,” Lestrade says. “If you’re very good, I’ll teach you some more new vocabulary.”

“Fine,” John says. “How _do_ you say _fuck me harder_ in Hungarian?”

“You have to work up to that one,” Lestrade says. “But you’re a quick learner, so I expect you’ll soon get the hang of it.”


End file.
